


alone and adrift on a tide

by mazily



Category: Shetland (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 06:05:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17038115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/pseuds/mazily
Summary: Rhona came to Shetland for the water.





	alone and adrift on a tide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xylaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylaria/gifts).



She came to Shetland for the water. 

"Liar," Jimmy says, when she tells him as much over whiskies and a shared avoidance of their empty homes (he's not so sly as he thinks he is, checking his mobile for a message that isnae there; no wonder Cassie worries about him enough to ask almost everyone on the bloody island to keep an eye on him). "You came for the promotion. For the power."

"And the water," Rhona insists. She tilts her glass against his and takes another sip, lets the peat and warmth fill her mouth, her chest. Jimmy mirrors her, swallows his own drink in one steady go. Studying her as he does so, like he's trying to ascertain whether she's a witness or a suspect. 

He puts his glass down with a thump. "Fine," he says, "And the water."

Rhona twirls the last of her whisky in the glass, watches the brown waves swirling and reflecting the murky pub lights. She lifts it to her mouth, swallows the rest of it down. 

"But, aye," she says, putting the glass down lip to lip with Jimmy's on the bar, "It was mostly the power." She shrugs. She's spent more of her life hiding bits and pieces of who she is than not, and if everything that's happened has reinforced anything, it's the understanding that lies will out. 

"You wear it well," Jimmy offers.

"Ta," she says, and reconsidering the false modesty, "I know."

The pub's as busy as it is most nights in summer, and Rhona smirks at Jimmy when they both spot a couple half-ready to shag in the corner nearest the toilets at the same time. He's almost out of his seat to nudge them elsewhere when the young woman--Alice, or maybe Allie; Rhona can't quite recall which--pushes at the bloke's chest and nods in the direction of the exit.

Jimmy relaxes on his stool. Rhona studies the rest of the pub patrons: the other citizens of Lerwick grown tired of summer sun and tourists, of the novelty of being comfortable outdoors. The low murmur of conversations rolling over her as surely as a wave, as calming as the roar of silence that comes when you submerge yourself underwater. 

Her phone buzzes in her jacket pocket. Harsh, like breaking above the surface. She looks at the caller ID, swallows the reflexive curse. Accepts the call and brings the phone to her ear. "Rhona Kelly," she says, and holds her hand up at Jimmy's questioning look. A member of the non-existent commission to root out corruption in the force "requests" a meeting with her buzzing in her ear as she tries to signal for another round.

Jimmy takes over negotiations with the bartender, tells him this round's on her-- _ liar _ , she mouths, while listening to her orders: tomorrow, an early morning flight to Edinburgh, a "few more questions" about Phyllis. She thanks them for her troubles before ending the call. Picks up the drink that's appeared in front of her and downs it, flags the bartender for another.

"Everything alright?" Jimmy asks. 

"Oh, just another interview with the commission--tomorrow,  _ if that suits _ . If that bloody suits. I had half a mind to ask,  _ and if it doesn't _ , but I didn't particularly want the answer shouted at me from some sanctimonious bawbag in Edinburgh."

Jimmy slides his drink across to her. Orders another round while she drinks. They've neither of them someone to go home to, after all, and the sun won't set tonight. 

*

The investigation's a farce. Phyllis was allowed to resign, quiet and secret and an escort at her door in the middle of the night, expected to assist and aid in any questioning the department might have. Spirited away to places unknown, separated from friends and family and former lovers. For her own protection, or everyone else's, Rhona didn't dare ask. She hitches her bag up on her shoulder, starts the internal debate as to whether she wants to take out her laptop or a book while she waits out the inevitable delay. 

Eventually she settles into an empty seat. Pulls out her laptop, opens it and settles in to work. 

Being called away to Edinburgh with minimal notice on the whim of a secret commission is far from the worst legacy of her relationship with Phyllis, but it's easily the most frustrating from the perspective of her job. So she works from the airport. Works anywhere she can squeeze in a minute or two with her files.

(Better that than thinking about Phyllis. About the feeling in the pit of her stomach the first time she went out to pull after they'd ended things, about the sudden dizziness when a beautiful woman smiled at her and all she felt was doubt, a churning in her stomach, nowhere near pissed enough to follow through. The streetlights when she walked back to her hotel, detouring to buy a bottle of something ridiculously expensive, sober and refusing to cry or look behind her when a shadow shifted, danced, suddenly sure it was somehow Phyllis following her home.)

Her flight is called. She packs up her computer, the papers spilling out from a file, stands up to queue for boarding. The flight itself is uneventful, calm, and she finishes her trashy novel just before landing. Takes a taxi into the New City, watches out the window as buildings and people blur past.

Rhona sees Phyllis out of the corner of her eye, a flash of the red jacket she'd bought at Rhona's insistence (at her smile, at her leer, and oh how they'd christened that jacket the moment they tumbled through Phyllis's front door) and then nothing. She asks the taxi to let her off, pays and scrambles out as fast as she can manage. Her legs shake. She hurries to the intersection, looks down each street for a hint of Phyllis, sees only businessmen and women in neverending black, teenage girls vibrant and colorful out of their uniforms, a tabby cat. 

She checks her mobile to see where, exactly, she's landed. To orient herself. She turns toward her hotel and begins to walk. Her bag is heavy, and her shoulders ache. 

The red R on the hotel sign flickers in and out, but the lobby is clean and well-maintained enough. Rhona checks in and declines help with her bags, half falls asleep against the wall of the lift as it climbs to her floor. Her stomach grumbles -- she'd half a roll before leaving for the airport, but naught else all day -- as she slides the key card into the slot, watches it flash red, tries twice more before it flips to green.

She drops her bag just inside the door. Is halfway out of her blouse, already fantasizing about a long shower, when she realizes: there's Phyllis, actual Phyllis, corporeal Phyllis, sat on her bed and watching her. 

"Hello," Phyllis says, when Rhona notices her. She gives Rhona a small wave. An unsure smile.

"Fuck," Rhona says. 

And they do: sad and angry and dangerous, teeth and fingers just the wrong side of too hard. Phyllis slips out while Rhona washes the smell of sex down the drain of a shower with lukewarm water and terrible water pressure. Exchanges it for hospital soap and sterility, her own deodorant and perfume and the barrier of her most severe suit. Armor to wrap herself in.

She almost misses the note, just to the right of the sink. Hotel paper, hotel pen, drips of hotel water along the edge.  _ I wasn't here. _

*

"Over in the corner," Jimmy says, tilting his head so she knows which corner he means. He passes her a glass of brown. She doesn't trust the look on his face. "I don't think I've seen her around Lerwick before, maybe she's--"

"Perez," Rhona warns. 

"What?" Like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He takes a drink of his whisky.

"I'm very happy that you've finally started to move on, believe me when I say it's past due and we're all thrilled,  _ but that doesn't mean I'm in any way prepared to _ ," Rhona says. She isn't sure how to finish that thought, what to say to convince him to leave things be. She hasn't mentioned seeing Phyllis in Edinburgh. Her only bruises easily hidden beneath blouses and skirts, tucked away to ignore until she can forget. "Chances are she plays on your team anyway."

"Not with the way she's looking at Tosh," Jimmy says. "Not that Tosh--"

Rhona just leans in. A physical manifestation of  _ hmmm _ , crossed with  _ tell me more about that hole you're digging yourself.  _ Jimmy freezes, gapes, stops talking for a moment and visibly accepts he's lost sight of the plot.

"Right," he says, and he mimes zipping his mouth shut. "No more of that."

"Too right," Rhona says. She finally brings her glass to her mouth for a long swallow. At least Jimmy splurged on the good stuff. She can't stop herself glancing over to the woman in the corner every so often, thinks Perez might have a point about her sexuality. Not that she'll give him the pleasure, and not that it matters any to her.

Not while she's still untangling her ex's, well. She doesn't want to think about any of that.

"Any news from Cassie?" she asks.

"Just the usual," Jimmy says. "She's brilliant, he's brilliant, Brazil's brilliant, dad who?"

"Jimmy," Rhona says. 

"She's great," he says. He shrugs. "I wish she didn't have to cross the whole bloody planet to be great, but what's important is she's happy."

"She's grown up," Rhona says. She can't think of anything else to add. 

"Aye," Jimmy says, "That she is."

They drink in silence. Both of them nursing their drinks, taking their time with them, listening in on the conversations around them instead of expending energy Rhona doesn't have on one of their own. Jimmy snorts, pretends he's coughing, when an American tourist tries it on with Tosh. When Tosh turns him down so casually that he doesn't recognize it right away. She waves at Jimmy and Rhona, finishes her drink. Stops to say goodbye to them before heading home for the night--"No offense," she says, "But the crowd tonight's a bit crap."

"I hate to mention it," Rhona says, once Tosh is safely outside, ands he and Jimmy have another glass each in front of them, "But I get the feeling the commission's going to insist on calling Tosh in for an interview soon. I'd hoped not, and I could be wrong, but that's the impression I had."

Jimmy sighs. "Bastards," he says. 

"Misogynist, homophobic bastards," Rhona says. "Not a single woman among them, at least not that I've seen. Who knows, though, maybe they'll trot one out when they call you in."

"Next month," Jimmy says. "That second weekend."

"Fuck," Rhona says, "I'm sorry, Jimmy. Had I--"

He places his hand on top of hers on the bar, and she loses her way mid-sentence. "No apology necessary," he says. She opens her mouth: to explain, to clarify, to apologize yet again. For not knowing, for not wanting to know. "No, unless you're a better actress than Judi Dench, you'd nowt to do with any of that, so I can't accept any of your apologies."

She pretends not to notice the way his voice trips over any mention of possible bribery and corruption in one of his cases, the way he tries to avoid the ghost of Phyllis's betrayal as it continues to stick to Rhona's shadow. 

She considers it a favor returned, from years spent ignoring Fran's ghost in every line on Jimmy's face. A favor underserved, she thinks, as she fleetingly wishes Phyllis had the decency to abandon her through death instead of desperation and lies.

"Still," she says. 

"Still," he answers. 

*

"But you've still no proof it's anything but a run of bad luck," Rhona argues. It's a nother weekend lost to interviews, to airports and hotel rooms and takeaways.  Another weekend trying to do her job via mobile and spotty hotel wifi. She puts her mobile on speaker, puts it down on the table next to her supper. "Tourists getting drunk, not respecting the water." 

She takes a bite of her pasta--overcooked, but edible, sauce with a hint of heat she wouldn't have expected from the dingy takeaway down the street from her hotel. She's decently convinced it's murder, or something close enough, but it never hurts to force Perez to describe his reasoning. He's far too prone to following his instincts without allowing anyone but Tosh to see what he's thinking.

"Other than two bodies washing up with identical mysterious marks on them," Perez says. She can make out the sound of conversation in the background, thinks he's probably at the station. "Even Cora thinks they look the same, although she'll know more definitively tomorrow."

"Then call me tomorrow," Rhona says. 

"Aye, boss," he says, and she can see him giving her a mock salute just before ending the call. Cheeky sod. 

She writes up a page of notes on their phone call while the details are still fresh in her mind, alternating sentences with bites of pasta, sips of water. Her room's too close to the lifts, and everytime one of them dings for her floor she tenses. Listens. 

"You numpty," she tells herself.  She packs up her notes into her work bag, locks it (she finds herself maintaining proper protocol even more strictly of late; for her own peace of mind, and in preparation for any inevitable questioning), looks around the generically dull room. 

She's flipping between ITV2 and 4, shirt untucked from her skirt but stockings still on, when there's a knock on the door. She calls out that she didn't order any room service, they must have the wrong room, and turns back to the telly. Her arches ache from wearing new heels all day. Whoever it is--"no housekeeping necessary," she tries--knocks again and again. Doesn't say anything, just knocks until Rhona pulls herself up. Stalks over to the door and opens it wide, mouth open to shout her displeasure.  

It's Phyllis. A man Rhona doesn't recognize discretely loitering a few doors down, watching them too carefully to be anything but Phyllis's handler. Rhona closes her mouth. Her eyes, just for a second, opens them again to be sure of what she's seeing.

"I specifically requested a different hotel," she says. "How-- no, never mind that, why--"

"May I come in?" Phyllis asks. 

"And if I say no?" Rhona answers. 

Phyllis doesn't answer immediately. Just looks at Rhona, studies her like--like it's the last time they'll ever see one another, the last chance to just look. To memorize. To remember. Eventually her shoulders relax. "If you say no," she says, "I'll respect that. I deserve it."

Rhona lets herself imagine it: saying no, watching Phyllis turn away, walk away. "Fine," she says, "Come in. I expect Mr. Not So Inconspicuous over there can wait outside the door while we talk." A breath while she remembers, lets her anger and disappointment and grief wrap around her like a duvet. "We won't be long," she adds. 

Phyllis nods. Follows her inside.

Rhona stops in the space between the bed and the small desk she's been using as desk and table both, refusing to sit. To give any ground. She looks up at Phyllis, arms crossed, waiting:  _ well?  _ made physical in her posture, her stance. 

"I had an entire speech planned," Phyllis says. "And now it's gone."

"An apology would be a fair start," Rhona says. Unable to stop herself, no matter how determined she started the conversation not to participate. To listen, nothing more, and bid Phyllis farewell forever. 

"I do," Phyllis says. "Am. I am sorry, you must believe that."

"I think you'll find I don't have to believe anything you tell me, not after what you did."

Phyllis looks like she's been struck--the nerve of her, looking like that. "Fair," she says. "That's fair. I--what I did was unforgivable, I know that. No matter how altruistic I convinced myself my reasons were, I betrayed so many people. I betrayed you."

"You did." Rhona keeps her arms crossed in front of her. Protecting herself, yes, but also stopping herself from reaching out. From giving into the urge, still there after everything, to soothe away Phyllis's pain. Her self-caused pain.

"And I'm sorry. And I want you to know that I never--not once, not in all the time I've known you--implicated you in anything to do with my--"

"Deal with the Devil?"

"--right," she says. "I was always careful to keep all of that separate from you, from your cases. And I've signed affidavit after affidavit to that effect, in the past months, no matter what anyone in the Lord Advocate's office might claim in an attempt to catch you up in my mess."

Rhona refuses to say thank you for the least possible courtesy. "Good," she says, instead.

"I didn't want you to," Phyllis starts. 

"What, think that of you? Too bloody late," Rhona says. "Although I'm smart enough not to fall for anything smarmy John Parson says about you telling all about our secret lesbian cabal, and how I clearly knew everything and am now biding my time until I can try again."

"They're letting him run the investigation? He's half a dozen sexual harassment claims under his belt, and at least as many complaints about discriminatory language. He's a dinosaur. A fossil." She looks so offended by the thought of him running the commission into her crimes, so like the Phyllis Rhona first fell for, at the morning session of a conference, all fire and fury and ready to take on the male speakers who kept insisting on calling her Mrs. 

Rhona finds herself half wanting Phyllis to ask her to run away with her, to go into protection and leave everything she's earned behind. She's more than half tempted by the idea. She digs her fingernails into the palm of her hand, jolts herself back into reality.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I can't. I need--thank you for the warning, but please, I need this to be good bye. For real this time."

Phyllis nods. "Good bye," she says. She holds out her hand. Waits one beat, two, and Rhona steadfastly refuses to reach out and touch her. Isn't sure she'd survive it. "Right, okay," Phyllis says, pulling her hand back to her side. "Good bye."

Rhona closes her eyes. Listens to her footsteps. The sound of the door. The ding of the lift.

*

Home again, and she kicks off her shoes the moment she's through the front door. Resists the urge to drop her bags next to them, gives herself a stern talking to as she carries them up the stairs to unpack."If you don't do it now," she says, her voice too loud in her empty home (Phyllis's green scarf still taunting her from the coat rack; she'll donate it to a women's shelter as soon as she can bring herself to do so), "They'll sit until the next time you're called to explain yourself to a bunch of sanctimonious pricks who think they know your thoughts better than you do, and then where will you be."

She detours to turn on some music. To look out the window for just a second, to look at the view that first bewitched her about this house. The one she couldn't help but imagine sharing with Phyllis from the moment they met.  

She's separating out the dry cleaning when Perez calls. "There's another body," he says, before she can finish saying her name. "Same as the last, which, by the way, Cora agreed looked like foul play. I'm emailing you her report now."

"Then go ahead with the investigation," Rhona says. She shakes out a blouse. Tries to remember whether or not she ended up wearing it this trip, drops it onto the pile for the cleaners just in case. When he doesn't thank her and immediately end the call, impatient to start digging into the case even this late at night, she starts to worry. 

"Come over," he says, "We can discuss Cora's report or what I'll need to know when I go to testify or, hell, what happened on  _ Strictly _ last night. There's plenty of food; I keep cooking enough for Cassie and Duncan too." 

" _ Strictly _ isn't even airing right now," Rhona says. "Anyway, I'm not," she starts: hungry, ready, take your pick, but Jimmy's having none of it. 

"Just come on by as soon as you're done unpacking," he says. Hangs up before she can argue the matter more. She drops her phone on the bed. Studies her clothes scattered across her bed, the box of Phyllis's belongings next to her closet, the light glowing through her open window.

"Fuck it," she says. Grabs a bottle from her collection on the way out the door.

After they finish supper, as Perez rinses the dishes, he gestures for her to go outside. They sit, drinking Rhona's whiskey (the bottle Phyllis gifted her one dirty weekend not long enough ago; the bottle Rhona grabbed on a whim on her way out the door). They don't talk. Rhona listens to the sea. Feels the tides: salt calling to the salt in her blood, water calling to water. She pours herself another glass. Offers the bottle back to Jimmy.

The sky is pink, shot through with grey. Rhona tilts her head back. Closes her eyes against it.

"I've been warned against discussing any details of the commission with you," Perez says.

Rhona tips back her glass. She doesn't answer; doesn't know that she could. She drinks as fast as she can, swallows and swallows until her glass is empty. Feels Perez's gaze on her. Focuses her own on the horizon.

"But even so," he says, "I'm here if you--"

"Not tonight," Rhona says.

"No," Jimmy says, "Not tonight."   
  



End file.
